Stash
by BlueSkye12
Summary: John finds Sherlock's stash of drugs and confronts him about it. This sort of conversation must have happen at some point. Give it a read. Probably not what you think. You may even like it! Takes place shortly before TGG.


_**Stash**_

John reached the far point of his circuit around the Outer Circle of Regent's Park and began heading back to Baker St. The air was mild for the season and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was going to be a fine day indeed. He really enjoyed, no, appreciated his morning runs since finally being able to re-establish the routine. Something from before that was now a part of after. He liked that. Wouldn't Ella Thompson be proud of him, he thought with a smirk. Routines, evidence of his success in transitioning to a normal civilian life. A natural athlete, John had been a runner ever since his school boy rugby days. He'd always been able to run forever. Beyond his regular army physical training requirements he'd even run when he could while deployed. It helped him combat the stress and boredom of waiting for all hell to break loose, again. John smiled to himself. Normal routines. Maybe Ella wouldn't be please if she actually knew how very strange his new normal was. Ignoring the ever-present tightness in his shoulder John sprinted the last two blocks to 221B Baker St.

He paused to stretch in entry then he picked up the day's papers and went up stairs. He kicked off this trainers, pulled off his fleece and walked toward the kitchen. On the table was a bowl with the dregs of cereal and milk next to a blue and white box. John picked up the box. Empty. "So you ate all the muesli then? " he said annoyed. Sherlock was lying in a bored repose on the couch apparently staring at the ceiling light. "Oh, yes. You need to get some more." Sherlock said distractedly. "There was at least half a box!" John snapped. "How is it that you can not eat for three days then you eat my breakfast? I thought you didn't like cold cereal...nev-never mind." Sherlock wasn't listening anyway. John took a deep breath. No toast today. They were out of bread, he was sure of that. "Is there anything in? Anything at all?" He quipped annoyance building as he began rummaging through the cupboards noisily. A box of stale biscuits, four cans of beans next to stoppered bottles of God knows what. As John searched further back in the top cupboard he noticed a rolled up bag of crisps. Christ, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd bought crisps. He reached roughly for the bag intending to throw it away. His hand closes around something vaguely squishy. 'Oh jeez, this can't be good' he thought as he opened the bag peering in cautiously. He blinks. The bag contains four small square packets of a fine white powder. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. He's been here so many times with Harry and her booze his reaction is automatic. He is not doing this again. Not with Sherlock, no way. Without thinking he walks toward the couch with the bags of cocaine in his outstretched hand.

"So is this what Lestrade was looking for? " he says barely suppressing his mounting anger. Sherlock roused by the note of John's voice glances in John's direction his eyes widening for a mere fraction of a second before reasserting his bored facade. "Yes, I suppose it is." He replies casually. John is practically seething. He looks away for a moment. You ass. You self-absorbed sodding spoiled bastard he thinks along with other unkind things. He turns back toward Sherlock. "I thought you were clean. You told Lestrade, you told _me_ that you were clean." John's voice is rising. "I am clean, John." snaps Sherlock annoyed. "Why do you care? What business is it of yours anyway?" Sherlock says as he flips over away from John while extending a hand backwards palm up obviously expecting the return of his stash. John snorts in amazement at the brazen gesture. "Well, let see, shall we? Hmm, aside from the fact that my medical license could easily be revoked if _you_r illegal drugs were ever to be found in _my_ flat, maybe I might just actually care that people die because of this..." John shouts whipping one of the cocaine packets at Sherlock's head hitting him right behind the ear. Sherlock whirls around and sits staring at John furiously. "Well thank you, Doctor, for the news flash. Please don't bore me with your cautionary tales of woe. I do know what the precise effects of _this_" he says waving the packet and spitting the word "on my body. The precise effects! And as for my apparent lack of regard for your imperilled medical license I bought this" shaking the packet again "last summer when, I can assure you, having a doctor as a flatmate was most definitely not of interest or concern!"

"You idiot. You're not listening" John states simply shaking his head. "I didn't say people die from cocaine abuse. They do but that's so obvious it's positively ... pedestrian" he seethes. "Those are street drugs, Sherlock. Do you know where they come from? Do you?"

"What? Are you implying I am not capable of determining its composition and purity? Me not able to see? " Sherlock counters, mocking and scorn infusing every syllable. "That's not what I was getting at. We're all in awe of your bloody chemistry skills!" John roars.

"People die, people are killed because of this" John states pointing at the packets in his hand. Sherlock emits a derisive snort shaking his head as if to say "Please, spare me". John is suddenly furious. "Who do you think profits from this? Where do you think the money, _your __money_, goes? Cancer research? Maybe Save the Children? " he throws another packet hard at Sherlock's face. Sherlock bats it away but then quickly picks it up. John pauses. Closing his eyes tightly taking several deep breadths, left hand clenching. "How do you think they keep it going?" John asks. Sherlock rolls his eyes "What going, where?" he mutters. "The war" John says simply. "Your Crown tax dollars at work I'd imagine." retorts Sherlock dismissively. "Did they tax your combat pay or just charge you per syringe and plaster directly?" Sherlock was not about to back down now. How dare John play the morality card like this.

"Not us " John says quietly. "And yes they taxed my pay. Don't they tax your trust fund?" he shot back scathingly. He paused again closing his eyes and breathing deeply. How could his brilliant genius of a flatmate be so utterly thick? "How do you think They pay for it? The Taliban, Al Qaida, the insurgents, the Warlords, any of them? How do you think They keep themselves in IED's and guns?" he threw the last two packets of drugs at Sherlock who actually looked slightly dumbfounded. "Right." John continued harshly. "Who needs tax revenue when stupid public school prats queue up to pay for your army." Sherlock clearly saw John's point now, really he did. He had honestly never considered that side of the equation before. But had John just called him a stupid public school prat? He couldn't let it go.

"Look, John" he shot back angrily "I ... am ... clean! Have been for ages. Yes, I bought this" another shake of a cocaine packet "but I didn't use it, any of it. And I bought it a long time ago." Sherlock threw the drugs onto the coffee table. Wasn't his self-restraint obvious and even admirable? And who the hell had died and made John Watson his keeper? He stared back at John with a looked that screamed 'piss off'. John shook his head smiling slightly as if to say I cannot believe you still don't get this, you prick. Then he turned locking Sherlock's eyes in a frighteningly cold humorless stare "Yeah, a long time ago. Way back last summer... Finance this then, did you? " John pulled off his T-shirt. Sherlock could not avoid staring at the disfiguring scars on John's left shoulder. The ragged exit wound near his collar-bone was mottled with red. The thick incision scars from multiple surgeries crossed the shoulder. Further down on his left side between his ribs was the round scar from a chest tube. Even now the left shoulder and upper arm were smaller, less muscled than the right. Sherlock was speechless. John's breathing was heavy as he glared accusingly in raw, unabashed anger. Sherlock's face blanched slightly in brief horrific realisation of exactly what had happened to John last August before looking away.

John blinked, startled, checking his anger slightly upon seeing Sherlock's reaction. What the hell had he just done? He stared at the T-shirt clenched so fiercely in his hand. What the fuck had he just said? Why was he so incredibly angry? John turned awkwardly, almost dazed, unable to say anything else and headed slowly for the shower.

Sherlock looked up as John left the room only to quickly look away again after catching sight of the scar on the back of John's shoulder where the bullet had entered through the arm hole of his body armour. He actually felt a wave of nausea. What had just happened? Was what John said true? Where had the money, _all_ the money, he'd spent on drugs over the years gone? Could he really bear some sort of responsibility? No, certainly not for that, not directly that. The Afghan drug trade was in heroin, after all, not cocaine. But for some other things not good? 'Perhaps, maybe, almost certainly. Yes.' he thought. Suddenly the sight of the drugs on the coffee table was as repulsive as it was enticing. He stood up and walked to the window.

What exactly had just happened here? He and John argued regularly but this was different. He felt like some invisible chasm had opened but he wasn't sure. Why couldn't he see, why didn't he know? He'd glimpsed the scars any number of times before. John certainly wasn't vain and had always appeared to acknowledge his injury matter-of-factly. That being said, he was never without a shirt even around the flat. What had just happen? John does not act like that. His eyes do not look like that. It wasn't just about the drugs. Not any more. He stared out the window at Baker St. below. What on earth was he supposed to do?

Once in the bath, John closed the door behind him then leaned back against it eyes closed. He was still breathing hard, his t-shirt still in his fist, his whole body enraged. He needed to get a hold of himself. Why was he acting this way? He had definitely gone too far, crossed the line, as Sally Donovan might say. He'd known all along that Sherlock had a history with drugs. Why was this a surprise? He needed to deal with this better. 'No, nope, no way. This wasn't about him.' John though fiercely. 'It was Sherlock's fault, all his fault. He'd bought the drugs. He wanted them, was deliberately hiding them, needed them obviously, because he was a damn addict!' John pushed himself upright and open his eyes only to see his reflection in the mirror. His eyes immediately travelled down to his scars. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes again scrubbing his hand though his hair. _Likely to experience sudden resurgence of repressed or latent anger_. Damn, Ella, why did you have to be right about that one. John started the water, stripped down and stepped in to the shower.

Sherlock was still staring out the window trying to fathom the morning's events when John came downstairs a half hour later. John sat in his chair looking at Sherlock's back. "Sherlock" he began "What I said there was, hmm..., well, way beyond out of line. I didn't mean to say ... I-I'm sorry." Sherlock turned staring at John quizzically. John was apologizing to him. Why didn't it feel like a victory. After all, he had, in truth, been hurt by John's accusations. This felt all wrong. "It's not like I have _any_ business telling you what to do" John continued the "but ..." hanging unsaid in the air. A pang of panic suddenly coursed through Sherlock's stomach. "No, Mycroft has that job well in hand, thanks." Sherlock shoots back acidly turning his back to John, cringing inside. Why had he said that? Not helping. Stupid.

John pushed forward voice even. "But," there it was. "I, umm really just can't have drugs in the flat and, umm, if you decide to... well, I wont... but I can't stay if you're using." Sherlock whirled to stare at John who was looking at him sadly but seriously. This was no idle bluff, then. No, John only said what he meant. After a long moment, Sherlock retrieved the packets from the coffee table and walked to the kitchen sink where he washed the cocaine down. He clenched his jaw and balled his fist watching the powder disappear. He wanted it. Damn it. Even now. "Happy, John?" Sherlock was surprised by the residual harshness in his voice.

John just looked at him. "No" was all he said.

_A/N_: One thing I find so interesting about the current characterizations of Sherlock and John is that they are such total opposites. Their upbringing is probably the biggest difference with Sherlock seeming to come from a very privileged family and John a very modest one. John, I think, struggles more far with this than Sherlock does. I tried not to make this a simple John's right and Sherlock's wrong piece. John's (over) reactions are colored by his history as much as Sherlock's actions are. I hope it works.

Just some corrections added

Comments and reviews are wonderful. I don't own, etc.


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